


Out Of This Skin

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Endgame Stydia, F/M, Underage Substance Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia doesn't believe in fairytales. She believes in science, and, scientifically, her brain believes that Jackson is attractive so it releases more dopamine than it normally does when she looks at him and that is what being in love is like. Their relationship is mutually beneficial and makes sense and if she closes her eyes and plugs her nose, she can forget that it's passionless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of This Skin

**Author's Note:**

> "You can make your life look pretty, add a little ice and gin. Wash off the makeup and prepare the asprin, you can get out of this party dress but you can't get out of this skin." -Skin by Boy.

Before Lydia’s older sister has sex, it’s just something that married people do to make babies. It’s something unimportant and insignificant and something that she’s not sure she ever wants to do because babies are icky. Once, Lydia heard her grandmother say that sex is the only thing that her mom and daddy do besides fighting with each other.

But then Stefanie sneaks into the house through the window by Lydia’s bedroom, her hands still red from the tree she has just climbed. They are rough and calloused as she closes them around Lydia’s mouth when she opens it to tattle.

“Shhhh,” Stefanie says lowly, and because Lydia loves her older sister, she quiets almost immediately. “Were mom and dad looking for me?” Lydia nods. “Shit. They’re gonna know.”

She pulls her hand back and begins pacing the room, agitated.

“Know what?” Lydia whispers, fixing the strap of her soft white nightgown. Most girls her age have stopped wearing nightgowns and started to wear oversized t-shirts to bed, but she loves wearing a pretty dress even when she’s sleeping.

“Know that I slept with him,” Stef says unthinkingly. When she realizes what she’s revealed, she widens her eyes and rushes over to Lydia’s bed almost immediately. “Shit, Lydia, you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

“You slept with someone?” Lydia asks, confused. “Why? Do you want a baby?”

“Having a baby isn’t the only reason you have sex, Lyds,” Stef says, settling onto Lydia’s bed and smoothing back some of her hair. “There’s lots of reasons to sleep with someone.”

“But… people have sex to have babies. Are you going to have a baby now?”

Stefanie shakes her head.

“Of course not, sweetie. I’m sixteen. I’m not ready to be a mom.”

“But you had sex.”

“Right.”

“I don’t… get it.”

“You will when you’re older,” Stefanie promises, which is Lydia’s least favorite sentence in the entire English language. She doesn’t want to know when she’s older. She wants to know _now_.

But three weeks later, Stef comes crawling through Lydia’s bedroom window with tears streaming down her face and sobs wracking her body. Lydia doesn’t say anything; just pulls back her covers and allows her sixteen-year-old sister to cry into her shoulder. Even through words distorted by weeping, Lydia gets the gist of what has happened.

She decides that she doesn’t want to know now. Not if sex makes you feel like this.

* * *

 

The sun has almost entirely disappeared into the ground by the time Brendan Harris gets Lydia backed up against the side of his house. He’s been talking to her all night, smiling crookedly at her as he ruffles his already messy black hair. Lydia notices that there’s a little gap between his two front teeth, but she thinks that she likes it. Likes the way it is so imperfect; the one flaw on his otherwise other-worldly face. Even though they’re in seventh grade, he doesn’t have any acne. His voice isn’t at an awkward level. He’s tall, but not gangly.

When he grips her hips tightly and dips his head to drop a small kiss on her lips, Lydia doesn’t move. She lets him kiss her even though his hands are shaking and his smile has faltered into something less teasing over the course of the past few minutes. After all, Brendan Harris may not be perfect, but other kids have been getting kissed since last year. It’s Lydia’s time, and it’s not a big deal because everybody is kissing everybody, but if Lydia _hadn’t_ been kissed, she probably would be considered a freak.

After he pulls back, Brendan studies her face, trying to gauge her reaction to what he’s done. Lydia arranges her expression into something softer than what she actually feels. Brendan is a really good soccer player, and he’s generally well-liked. It is very possible that he could make Lydia’s life hell if she admits that she feels nothing for him.

“Was that okay?” he mutters, hands still gripping her hips too tightly.

That’s sort of the problem. It was only _okay_. When Stefanie had told Lydia about her first kiss, she had emphasized the fact that it made her feel like she could do anything. It made her feel special and pretty and like a woman instead of a girl. Lydia, for her part, still feels trapped inside the body of a thirteen-year-old.

“It was more than okay,” she smiles, lying, but he’s too distracted by her dimples to notice. “I think you should do it again, actually.”

Brendan looks surprised.

“Really? You want me to?”

His voice cracks in his eagerness, and Lydia realizes that she might be the only one feeling so detached from the situation. But as he pours his feelings for her into their next kiss, sloppier and wetter than the first, she also thinks that she doesn’t ever want anyone to be able to tell how she feels from a simple touch of lips. If she wants a guy to know something about her, she will use her _words_. Not this. This is too much vulnerability.

Brendan re-adjusts his position, squeezing her hips slightly before moving his hand up to cup her cheek. Lydia thinks about how cold the grass is as it tickles her ankles and wonders if it has to do with the time of year.   

* * *

 

When one of Stefanie’s friends from high school invites Lydia to a party, she’s pretty sure he doesn’t know how young she is. After all, Stef is six years older, and she graduated two years ago. But she’d dated this guy’s older brother, and they’d hung out, and he remembers Lydia as a cute, gawky little girl who liked wearing dresses and did his math homework for him.

She is not gawky anymore, but she is cute. Ergo, instant invitation to a party.

After the appropriate amount of makeup is slathered on and the appropriate amount of skin is covered up, Lydia and three of her closest friends pile in her mom’s car and get dropped off at a pizza place three blocks away from the party. By the time they have walked over to the large California house, there’s loud music blaring from the speakers and even louder yelling from the direction of the backyard, where Lydia recalls there being a pool.

“Are you sure it’s okay that we’re coming?” one of Lydia’s friends asks, but she ignores the insecure comment because there are going to be so many people at this party and, to be honest, all Lydia cares about is not sticking out like a sore thumb.

“It’s fine,” Lydia says, brushing it off coolly. “We were invited.”

She had always thought that the first time she walks into a high school party is going to be some big, monumental occasion, but the truth is, nobody even notices as Lydia Martin pushes through the iron gate and strides through the property of the large home. It could be her short skirt or the heels that she’s wearing, but Lydia likes to think that it’s her confidence that makes her appear to fit in at a party where most of the invitees are two or three years older than her.

While her friends skitter off in the direction of the first cute boys they see, Lydia ignores them and strolls over to the drink table off of the patio, where several half-used bottles of hard liquor are paired with an array of mixers to be poured into red solo cups. Lydia’s first instinct is to go for the Mike’s Hard Lemonade, something that she’s had with Stef a few times. As she grabs the bottle opener, however, a voice cuts her off.

"Aww, c’mon. Pretty thing like you? You could do better than that.”

Frowning, Lydia turns around to see a boy leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, a light smirk etched across his face. Even as her heart speeds up, Lydia’s expression remains calm. She stares at him, then pointedly pops the cap on the hard lemonade and takes a long drag from the bottle.

“And you are?” she inquires as soon as she lowers it.

“Dave,” he says. It’s a simple name, and nondescript, but she thinks that it goes with the way his light hair flops into his celery green eyes. “I’m an incoming senior.”

There’s some sort of pride in his voice when he says it, maybe because he _knows_. He knows that a senior is exactly what she needs in order to become socially successful at Beacon Hills High School. If she starts going out with a senior, she automatically goes to the top of the totem poll of freshman girls. Not that she isn’t up there already, but this? This guarantees immunity. Someone to take care of her and watch out for her and give her the reputation that she knows she wants.

She’s seen the way her friends treat the girls that raise their hands in class; the girls that know all of the answers and aren’t afraid to show it. Lydia used to be like that too, but that was in elementary school, when nobody took notice of it and nobody really cared either. It’s different now. Those girls get _scoffed_ at; they get made fun of between classes. Lydia is too socially intelligent to believe that being treated like that is worth her time. If she’s going to be successful in life, she will need her brains _and_ her lipstick. And life starts in high school.

“It’s too bad that you’re leaving soon,” she says, cocking her hip out as she places a hand on it. “You could have shown me how I could do better.”

Dave hears the invitation in her words almost immediately. Lydia can tell because his smirk widens and he moves closer, putting a hand on her hip to get her to turn around. She does, shaking slightly in her heels. She feels like she could topple at any moment, and she doesn’t think that it’s because of the shoes.

“Don’t drink the vodka with Hawaiian punch,” Dave suggests, voice light in her ear. “It tastes like cough syrup.”

“Maybe you should stop wasting my time with what I shouldn’t drink and tell me what I should,” Lydia suggests, turning around and placing her hands on his chest, the bottle of hard lemonade pressed against his sternum.

He raises his eyebrows before reaching behind her to grab a drink that Lydia can’t see, keeping his eyes on her as he uncaps the bottle and pours it into a solo cup. Lydia remains still as he mixes her drink, then allows him to offer it to her.

“You know this is a test, right?” she says as she takes the drink from his hands and lifts it to her red lips. “It’s hard lemonade or you.”

“Wish me luck, then,” he says, bowing slightly as he steps back and allows Lydia to sip. She tastes ginger ale and something else; something spicy and sweet as it burns across her tongue. Lydia swallows it quickly. “Well?”

In response, she lifts the hard lemonade between two fingers, holding it lightly before dropping it to the ground and letting it smash against the expensive fake rocks that line the pool area.

“You pass.”

Dave gets closer again.

“I thought I pegged you for a fireball girl.”

“It must be the red hair,” Lydia jokes drily. She’s sick of being called “fiery” just because she’s got hair the color of a tomato.

But Dave shakes his head, raising a hand to grab a piece of Lydia’s hair and run his fingers through it.

“Nah,” he says, eyes meeting hers. “It’s definitely something else.”

A few hours later, when he’s got his hand up the back of her shirt and his lips on her collarbone, she tries to decide if she still likes the taste of fireball as it mixes with the cheap beer that is heavy on his tongue.

* * *

 

“What do you think about Jackson Whitmore?”

Lydia pauses as she lifts her plastic fork up to her mouth, stopping before she can eat the lettuce.

“Why asking?” she inquires casually, giving Monica a casual frown.

“I heard something,” Monica says mischievously.

It would be easy to become excited about this, but Lydia merely dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin, making sure it doesn’t tarnish her flawless lipstick. The other girls stare at her as she sets the napkin neatly back on her lap and lifts up her fork again. It is only then that she turns to Monica with an annoyed expression and one immaculate eyebrow raised in question.

“Well,” she says, bouncing the ‘l’ off of the roof of her mouth. “What did you hear?”

"He was asking Danny when you and Dave broke up.”

“God, that Danny is so cute,” says Savannah, wistfully popping a cracker into her mouth. “I’d like to ask him when you and Dave broke up too.”

Sometimes Lydia thinks that it’s a true shame that not all women are blessed with a gaydar. Other times, she thinks it’s enjoyable.

“What did Danny say?” she asks, ignoring Savannah.

“He said that it had been a few weeks and that he wasn’t sure how the relationship had ended.”

The relationship had ended with Lydia realizing that she had surpassed her need for Dave. Dave had established her as an important player in the idiotic games of high school students, but it’s more important that she has control over her own graduating class, as opposed to suddenly being powerless when the seniors of this year graduate. They only have a semester left of classes, after all.

Dave hadn’t really understood, but that’s probably because Lydia hadn’t told him why. He never understood that he was dispensable. Purposeful. A decision she had made based on precision, not passion.

It’s the same way she’s going to approach the situation with Jackson Whitmore.

He’s attractive. Popular. All the guys want to be him, all the girls blush when he walks down the hallway. And he’s certainly going to be the lacrosse captain next year; he’s the best one on the team. This is what Lydia should want, isn’t it? She should want Jackson Whitmore, who is the best that Beacon Hills has to offer her. She should want team captains and pretty boys and guys that can raise her to a higher place, not drag her down.

When the bell rings to signal the end of lunch, Lydia swoops over to her locker without glancing back at her friends. They will follow her if they want to. If they don’t, it doesn’t matter. She still walks through the hallways with a purposeful click of her heels, smiling at people who have earned her smiles. By the time she twiddles the dial on her locker and swings it open, she’s not sure whether she’s smiled at more people or ignored more. She’s swaying towards the latter.

After adjusting her lipstick in the pink mirror in her locker, Lydia smacks the door closed and walks the few short strides it takes to reach Jackson Whitmore’s locker. He’s putting some binders into the shelf on top, but when Lydia leans on the locker with her shoulder, effectively closing it, Jackson turns his attention towards her at once. The way his gray eyes rake over her body makes Lydia flush pleasantly; it gives her confidence.

She has _power_. Her body has power. Her breasts have power, and her waistline, and the way her legs look in heels. There’s a reason she looks like this, and maybe _this_ is that reason.

Jackson Whitmore.

"I heard you've been asking about me," she says, tracing the words carefully.

"Maybe I have," he replies. "And?"

"And I'm wondering if there's anything you'd like to ask me yourself, as opposed to hearing it through the grapevine. I'm not certain, but I _think_ I could be a more reliable source."

With any other guy, Lydia would have simply suggested that he question her over dinner. Jackson, however, is different. He has to be treated carefully, as though he is utterly and completely in control of the relationship.

“Maybe I could ask you over dinner tomorrow night.”

Right. There it is.

“Maybe you could,” Lydia says, smiling slowly at him. “Pick me up at seven. Don’t be late.”

Her hips swing more than usual as she walks away from him.

* * *

If Lydia has learned anything over the years, it’s that sex doesn’t really mean much. Stef is six years older and has slept with a half-dozen guys, and even though she and Lydia don’t talk much anymore, she’s still someone that Lydia looks up to. If Stef treats sex like an activity, like an instinct and instinct alone, then that must be what it is.

The movies talk about first love and first times and sweaty palms and big pronunciations of love, but the truth is, Lydia and Jackson simply fall together. It’s not a big deal. One day, they’re two people who have been on a few dates and who have made out a few times. The next, she’s attending all of his lacrosse practices and hiding the fact that she’s already being asked to take AP classes sophomore year, even though it’s too early for invitations to go out.

There are no sweaty palms. She doesn’t feel nervous when she calls him up on the phone, or when she gets on her knees in front of him for the first time. It’s just what people like them do-- they find other attractive people and date them. Lydia figures out how to be a girlfriend and learns that Jackson is a less-than-giving boyfriend.

Being Jackson’s girlfriend is exhausting, if only because it reaffirms what she already knows: she must be perfect all the time. There is no room for coming to school in yoga pants or a t-shirt. There is no scenario in which she can have a bad hair day or smudged makeup. They have a position together: he is Kennedy, she is Jackie, and that is their role at Beacon Hills High School.

Sometimes she has to go home and sleep for hours, exhausted from playing dress-up all day. Tired because playing pretend from 7:30 to 2:15 knocks the life out of her, sucking away the energy even though she doesn’t realize it until later.

Several months in, people start asking her if she’s in love.

Lydia doesn’t know. Sometimes she feels a flutter of affection in her stomach when she notices one of Jackson’s habits or quirks. He scratches his eye when he’s doing math, and he raises his nose too high in the air when he’s talking to people he doesn’t like, protecting himself. He does that a lot, actually. Shields himself. She doesn’t know why, but it only takes a few months of their relationship for him to stop doing it with her.

“I do love him,” Lydia ends up replying, just because she doesn’t think that there’s any other way to explain the camaraderie between the two of them. It’s mutually beneficial and makes perfect sense and, honestly, if she closes her eyes and plugs her nose, she can forget the fact that it is passionless.

The first time they have sex, Lydia’s justification for it is that she has to be in love with him. She has to. She’s content with him, and she likes making out with him and doesn’t really mind giving him blow jobs; it’s just something to check off of her list two or three times a week. Any other definition of love seems like a fairytale that Lydia has not seen proof of.

She doesn’t believe in fairytales. She believes in science, and, scientifically, her brain believes that Jackson is attractive so it releases more dopamine than it normally does when she looks at him and that is what being in love is like.

Jackson pushes her skirt up instead of taking it off, and Lydia doesn’t know how to tell him that it bothers her. His hands are rough on her stomach as his lips close over her nipple, and she closes her eyes and lets her hands remain flat on the bed, trying to concentrate on the way he’s touching her. In the books that she’s read-- a last ditch effort to prepare herself for this moment-- the guy always kisses the girl on the lips and whispers, ‘are you okay?’ or ‘are you sure?’ against them.

No words are uttered from Jackson’s lips, much less ‘are you okay?’ He and Lydia remain silent as he pushes into her with an extended moan and she tries to adjust her body to the uncomfortable sensation. It burns slightly, but Lydia pretends to ignore this as she bites her lip, waiting for it to be over so she can go to the bathroom and cry. Jackson comes quickly and flops breathlessly on top of her, smoothing back his own hair, and that is when it is solidified in Lydia’s mind-- sex is just sex. Nothing more.

Nothing less.

* * *

She learns her way through being with Jackson in every sense of the word. By sophomore year, she loves him in a way that she didn't love him before. He is a part of her life-- a piece of her. He doesn't always treat her well, but Lydia understands why. He's bad at math and gets anxious when he drives on the highway and Scott McCall is suddenly the best lacrosse player in the school. There's always a reason to for him be snapping at her.

Which doesn't mean that it doesn't ache every time he walks away from her, feet hard against the tile floor of the school hallway, fist smacking into lockers whenever she does something so terrible that he cannot stand her stupidity.

Stupidity. Lydia Martin, stupid. This is the position that she's put herself in, and she _doesn't_ regret it-- at least not most days. What she does regret is antagonizing Jackson so much that he can't contain himself. They used to be able to keep their dirty laundry at home, or in Jackson's car, if they can't wait until they're home to yell at each other. Now they're airing their issues at school, and it's almost enough to make Lydia put her head down when she walks through the hallway.

Almost.

Perhaps the worst part is that Allison is Lydia's best friend, and Allison knows something about falling in love that Lydia just doesn't. Okay, so she and Jackson aren't the perfect couple. That doesn't mean that Allison and Scott's relationship is so much better.

They've gotten good at sex, her and Jackson. Or, that's what Lydia thought, until Allison started flushing red with pleasure just at the mention of Scott's name. It makes Lydia want to gag. Some nights, she drags Jackson home with her and allows him to fuck her into her new Queen-sized bed, raking her nails down his back when she wants it harder.

Lydia's never been the kind of girl to blush when somebody says 'sex.' But, _God_ , she doesn't get it. She wants to be the girl who can't resist a boy. She wants to have to blush. She wants to hear the word sex and be able to relate it to a slew of memories that make her sweat in the best way possible. This induces a vigor in regards to sex that Lydia has never felt before-- and it never ends the way she wants it to.

All of it boils over on the day she kisses Scott McCall.

Jackson has thrown another hissy fit, and Lydia is so tired of pretending that she is inferior to him. He may be the most popular boy in school, and the most beautiful one she’s ever seen, but lately he’s been treating other people nearly as terribly as he treats her. As his aggression increases, Lydia’s grip on the relationship takes a nosedive.

She’s been able to manage him before, to control him, but now he’s making moves on Allison and she is trying so, so hard not to feel inadequate. He used to look at her like he does Allison, sometime after they’d begun having sex and before Scott McCall had gotten good at lacrosse. When Jackson is on top of things, Lydia reaps the benefits. When he’s not, it’s Lydia who is punished.

Scott’s lips are softer against hers than Jackson’s are; they are certainly more pliable to what Lydia wants. She controls the kiss easily, aware of every movement that she makes. Scott doesn’t try to take control, which Lydia is fine with. She doesn’t want him to have the upper hand in this kiss-- this is hers. This is how she plays the game.

Lydia’s boyfriend has a very specific pressure that he applies to a kiss, but Scott kisses differently. Perhaps it’s because he’s used to kissing Allison, but he’s much more gentle with Lydia. She isn’t attracted to him, in spite of the fact that he is cute, because she knows that their personalities will never mesh well together. But it’s sort of nice to be able to grip his hair, because Jackson hates it when she does that. And he kind of holds her differently than Jackson does; there’s a gentleness in Scott’s hands that Lydia simply does not deserve.

They don’t talk about it again. She doesn’t tell Jackson even as she drops to her knees in front of him, trying to get the anger to fade into arousal. She doesn’t tell Allison as they go shopping for breakup boots. She doesn’t tell Stef, either, because Stef isn’t here anymore and Lydia isn’t Stef’s Lydia and she’s too tired to explain why she keeps on loving Jackson even though it’s hard.

* * *

It takes hindsight, red wine, and Stiles Stilinski to make Lydia realize that the relationship she had with Jackson wasn’t a good one. The first, hindsight, is offered to her naturally. As time passes,and Lydia is forced into situations that call for her to grow up, she begins to realize that she simply wasn’t happy being in love with Jackson. She also realizes that she _wasn’t_ in love with him. She certainly loved him. But one night, she’s drinking red wine with Allison, both of them cross-legged on Lydia’s soft bedspread, and she realizes that she doesn’t light up when she talks about Jackson like Allison lights up about Scott.

And Allison, undoubtedly, loves Scott.

After Allison leaves, Lydia drinks red wine until she falls asleep and makes the purposeful decision not to cry. She doesn’t cry. Crying is purposeless.

Dancing with Stiles helps too. Not because she wants to be with him, but because, for the first time, Lydia realizes that he looks at her the same way Scott looks at Allison. It blows her mind when he touches her with gentle fingers and speaks softly to her when he needs to communicate something. He compliments her, which is something she isn’t used to anymore. It makes her feel bright and shiny and pretty.

She starts to realize that she needs to feel new again.

When she meets Wes Shilling three days later, a boy who is slightly intoxicated and with a dimly lit bedroom handy, he can make her new. She likes the way she feels absolutely nothing when he touches her-- there’s no sense of obligation; no heaviness dragging their bodies deeper into the expensive mattress.

Lydia was almost never on top when she was with Jackson, too busy letting him have whatever he wanted to get what she wanted, but Wes doesn’t protest at all when Lydia settles her body on top of his. Instead, he lets a lazy grin drift over his lips as he stares up at her, brown hair almost blending in with the color of the pillowcase it rests against. When he touches her in a place that Jackson rarely ever paid attention to, Lydia keens, moaning loudly as it occurs to her that there’s a whole world of sex that she hasn’t explored in the year that she has been having it.

Sweat slicks over Lydia’s skin by the time they’ve both finished; she expects Wes to stop, but instead, he scoots her body up closer to him, until her thighs are straddling his head. Panic overtakes Lydia immediately. She’s heard about this, heard about how good it feels, heard that it’s better than actual penetration, and heard how vulnerable it can make a woman.

No matter how good it feels, Lydia is _never_ going to let anyone see her that exposed. Sex she can control. This? This she can’t.

“Stop!” she says, voice shaking. He looks up at her, startled.

“Sorry?” he says, questioning the word even as he says it. “Is something wrong?”

Lydia ignores her rapidly beating heart, trying to do damage control. Quickly, she switches into the sultry voice that she’s learned can convince any boy to do anything she wants.

“I think it’s your turn,” she says, slithering down his body and trailing her ballerina pink nails in her wake. There’s something maddening about the way her innocently pink nails glide down the finely sculpted chest of a boy who she has just met.

Lydia hollows her cheeks and wonders when she started giving blow jobs to protect herself from the men that she touches.

* * *

She likes sex. She likes the physicality of it; the way it affords people the opportunity to elicit gasps and moans in another person. She likes having the power to make a guy feel something, something _good_. Lydia likes working her lips over someone’s skin until he’s covered in red marks that she has produced because she wants to. She’d never been able to claim Jackson, but she claims Aiden, even when he isn’t hers.

In the summer after Jackson leaves, she sleeps with a few guys who don’t matter and never will. She remains completely okay with those choices, even after she meets Aiden and begins fooling around with him. And just because they’re fooling around exclusively, doesn’t mean they’re in a relationship. Lydia makes that very clear to Aiden every time he shoves her panties aside and pushes into her, reckless and sexy and always so eager to please.

So she might like him. She might think that he’s cute, and funny, and one of the hottest guys she’s ever seen. Still. They’re not in a relationship. She just likes being with him.

Sleeping with Jackson was different than this because Lydia hadn’t allowed herself to want with him. She had been so careful of their relationship that she had forgotten that she was allowed to contribute ideas to it. She’s never going to let that happen again, and she promotes her own wishes almost to a fault. Aiden, of course, never seems to mind, so Lydia doesn’t mind either.

She doesn’t mind when he fucks her in coach’s office, or in the guidance office, or in the shower in her bathroom on the weekend that her mom is out of town. They never have sex in Lydia’s bed, and Aiden never asks her to go home with him. Their relationship lacks intimacy in spite of the vigorous physicality of it, which is something that Lydia is glad about. She thinks about all of the times that Jackson was in her bed and realizes that she doesn’t want to taint it with another person.

After they broke up, she would clutch his housekey in her hand until it left marks and pretend that she was crying over her own idiocy instead of acknowledging that she was crying over a boy. Lydia is not going to do that again. She is not going to allow cute Aiden to wiggle his way into her bed and leave his scent on her pillow. She will not wear his hoodies or take a key to his house. He is strictly eye candy with particularly talented ab muscles.

It only takes one kiss with Stiles Stilinski to realize that the lack of intimacy in her relationship with Aiden might actually be detrimental.

At first, when Lydia goes to kiss him, it’s simply because one of her friends is in pain. As soon as her lips touch his, the realization that he is one of her best friends slams into her, smacking her in the face. Stiles is one of the most important people in her life-- and she’s kissing him. Something like _calm_ steals over Lydia, beginning at the top of her head and sifting all the way down to her toes. Her body buzzes with a hum that she has never felt before, and even when she lingers too long and pulls away, Lydia takes her time opening her eyes, waiting for the feeling to roll away from her.

It doesn’t.

The way Stiles is look at her immediately makes something rise in her stomach, getting higher and higher until it is pounding in her chest. Even as he speaks, her mind is replaying the kiss in succession; her answer is automated and confused. And when he calls her smart, she thinks that the wind is about to get knocked out of her chest.

Nobody has ever seen her for being _smart_. No boy has ever looked at her and said, “You’re so smart” instead of “you’re so sexy” or “you’re so hot.” No one.

The next time Lydia fucks Aiden, she does it to distract herself.

There is no possible way she could be falling for Stiles. Not _Stiles_. He’s one of her best friends; she can’t lose him. He is a piece of the new person that she is, the one that she likes so much better than old Lydia. She’s different, and he is a symbol of that.

If she were to lose Stiles, she thinks that she would lose too much of herself.

* * *

The first time Lydia has a sex dream about Stiles, she is not emotionally prepared for it.

Lately, he’s just seemed tired _all_ the time. The energy that Stiles had once exuded seems to be locked up inside of him, taken over by fear and anger. Nobody quite understands what’s going on, much less Stiles, but Lydia just wants to be there for him. She wants to protect this poor boy, the one who always figures it out, the one who is her partner in crime and who has saved her multiple times and who has always trusted her and believed in her and would rather die than live without Scott. Now that it’s Lydia’s turn to do something for Stiles, she can’t figure out what that is. It infuriates her. The most she’s ever done for Stiles is kiss him once to stop a panic attack, and how is she supposed to tell him that kissing him befuddled her in a way she’s never been before?

In her dream, though, Stiles isn’t tired at all. He’s standing in front of the board on his bedroom wall, full of unsolved mysteries, and Lydia is winding a red string around her finger while she lies splayed across his bed. When Stiles reaches out and takes the string from her, it hits Lydia that he is _her_ unsolved mystery. And that is when she grabs him and kisses him, feeling the same calming intensity build as it had during their first kiss.

After that, it’s all relatively simple. As simple as sex with Stiles could be, that is. He pulls her skirt all the way off, and her panties follow, and he isn’t nervous as he uses his fingers on her, his eyes resting on hers in a manner that is both adoring and slightly dazed. Perhaps it’s the look in his eyes that makes Lydia wake up; Aiden has looked at her like that, and she thinks that Jackson might have at some point, but this is different. Instead of closing herself off to the look, Lydia unfolds herself.   

She wakes with a hand between her thighs and a frustrated sob into her pillow.

Stiles is completely off limits, _especially_ to her thighs.

* * *

In any other situation, Lydia would probably laugh at the irony of the fact that she only realizes she is in love with Stiles when the evil version of him traps and taunts her. She looks into the face of one of her best friends and sees that he is not there, and all of a sudden she misses him so powerfully; it is an onslaught of affection for the boy that is not standing in front of her. This isn’t Stiles, this is someone else, and she wants her Stiles so desperately. Not to save her, but because she loves him. God, she loves him.

When they have him back, finally, Lydia can’t even let go of him. She just wants to touch him all the time, keeping some part of her hands on him so that Stiles can’t get away from her ever again. Even while they’re terrified, she just wants to tell him. The words are on the tip of her tongue: Lydia is falling in love with Stiles. She’s falling for him.

He’s waited for ages to hear those words, and she’s waited forever to _feel_ like this. She gets what was wrong before. She understands now why she hasn’t actually been in love. There’s a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone, and that difference makes Lydia’s knees shake whenever she looks at him: her beautiful boy.

Aiden is dead and Lydia knows, without even having to turn around, that Stiles is right behind her, ready to hold onto her. She doesn’t have to look; just hurtles herself into his body and screams quietly into his chest as he wraps his arms around her, shaking just as hard as she is at the loss of this boy. He wasn’t a member of the pack, but he was. He was a part of them.

And so was Allison.

Allison was more theirs than anyone, and her loss is carved into Lydia from the moment that she realizes Allison is dead. Not that initial moment, when she screams Allison’s name. Later on, when she wakes up into a world where her best friend doesn’t exist anymore. Her sobbing wakes up Stiles, whose first instinct is to cradle her against his body, and he can’t know that he’s just making it worse because Lydia is never going to be able to tell Allison about this moment, or the moments that are going to come after it. She’s never going to tell Allison what Allison probably already knew-- that Stiles Stilinski had worn down Lydia Martin without her even realizing it.

It’s not the right time to tell him, Lydia reasons as she huddles into Stiles’ arms. Sheriff Stilinski bursts into the room, ready to save the both of them, but Lydia can feel Stiles shaking his head and she knows exactly what he’s communicating. They protect each other. They don’t need anybody else. And it’s just them against the world.

Lydia remains cozily embraced in that belief until the moment Malia Tate walks into the school building.

She can’t explain why her heart breaks as she watches Malia walk down the hallway, but that day is the first time since Allison died that she doesn’t sleep in Stiles’ bed. He doesn’t ask why, just looks at her with confused brown eyes until Lydia can’t even be around him anymore. She staunchly refuses to say goodbye, and when she walks away, she doesn’t turn back to him.

The only thing to do is push Stiles away, directly into the arms of a girl who is not Lydia.

Stiles is better off without her anyways, Lydia argues. For years, he had wanted to be with Lydia, and it’s unfair of her to expect him to still want that after they’ve gotten to know each other. Things like this happen all the time, don’t they? At one point, you have this concept of a human being, an idea of who she is. But as soon as you actually know her and realize all of her flaws, suddenly, she’s not as beautiful as you once thought she was. Lydia understands.

Which doesn’t stop her from crying when Malia reveals the fact that she and Stiles have slept together.

Becoming friends with Stiles had taken an opposite effect on Lydia; she now realizes what a gaping hole her life has when he is not in it, and he is certainly not in it right now. At first, Lydia had expected him to shove harder when she began to push him away. But Stiles had been relatively easy to get out of her life once he had gotten together with Malia. He spends most of his time babysitting her and teaching her how to be socially capable. His lessons don’t always work out-- exhibit “A” being Malia casually talking about having sex with Stiles as though it isn’t a big deal.

Sex _is_ a big deal. Especially with Stiles Stilinski.

Lydia doesn’t know what to do except to stand there and let it happen, because the ironic thing is that, as Stiles moves away from Lydia, Malia gets closer. Between math tutoring and Lydia’s desperate attempts to teach Malia how to match her clothes, Lydia sees more of Stiles’ girlfriend than she does of the boy who is now her best friend. Meanwhile, Malia blabs on about her sex life and Lydia tries not to think about the fact that she has dreams about Stiles almost every night.

Sometimes they are sex dreams. Sometimes, Stiles is sleeping in Lydia’s bed with her, protecting her and comforting her, and suddenly they aren’t able to resist each other anymore. Sometimes, she’ll be walking down a hallway and he’ll shove her into a classroom and make her scream in a way that she hasn’t screamed since Aiden. But sometimes Lydia dreams about Stiles in a way that is utterly nonsexual, and those are the dreams that really shake her up. After all, sex is easy. It’s controllable. She’s had sex dreams before. She’s had sex before-- good sex, and bad sex, and sex that made her forget how scary the world is, which is usually Lydia’s goal when she gets into bed with someone.

The more innocent type of dream happens almost constantly, leaving Lydia wrenched when she wakes up. Stiles appears on her doorstep, in the rain, and tells her that he’s in love with her. Stiles shows up in one of Lydia’s classes and loudly proclaims that he is in love with her. Stiles and Lydia are in a life-or-death situation and as soon as they are safe, he drops his weapon and says that _he is in love_ with her. The distinction between “I love you” and “I am in love with you” is very clear in Lydia’s mind, and dream-Stiles never disappoints.

Despite her friendships with Kira and with Malia, Lydia doesn’t think she has ever felt more alone than when she opens her eyes into a world in which Allison is dead and Aiden is dead and Stiles’ love for her is deceased as well.

* * *

Here is a list of things that Lydia knows about Jordan Parrish:

  1. He is a something, just like she used to be a something.

  2. He has the prettiest eyes she has ever seen, except for Stiles’ eyes, maybe, and Lydia is pretty sure she’s biased about Stiles on account of the fact that he is the first person she’s truly been in love with.

  3. He pays attention to her when nobody else does. It makes her warm.

  4. He likes Chinese food and hates spicy things.

  5. He is too old for her.

  6. He has demons, just like she does.

  7. He is always tender when he touches her; always delicate and gentle, like she is something precious. They go slow almost constantly, and Lydia likes to think that he is healing her, chasing away the loneliness with his hands and hips and tongue.

  8. When he comes, he sighs, long and soft, in her ear. Every single time.




* * *

“Does he make you happy?” Stiles asks as though it is his business. Lydia doesn’t mean for him to find out, but he does anyways because he is her best friend and, without Allison, it was going to come out eventually.

Lydia screws up her eyes, trying to hear over the internal screaming in her mind. Despite the loudness of the thump of her heart, the moment is quiet, not even crickets disturbing them as they lie on the floor of Lydia’s bedroom, staring at the blank expanse of her ceiling. There aren’t any answers in the empty white canvas, so Lydia allows her eyes to slip all the way shut.

“Yes,” she says eventually, voice hushed. “He does.”

Her heart skips a beat when she realizes how true it is.

“Do I make you happy?”

Her answer comes to her far more quickly this time, biting words that are said in a tender voice.

“Not always.”

Stiles’ sharp intake of breath tells Lydia that he has misunderstood what she is saying, but she isn’t in any hurry to correct him. He and Malia have only been broken up for a few weeks. To say anything about their relationship would be… inappropriate. To say the least.

“And you love him?” Stiles asks, his voice cracking. When Lydia opens her eyes again, she doesn’t look at him. Just answers in a content voice.

“No. I don’t.”

“Lydia.” He’s falling to pieces right next to her; she can hear it in the way he’s breathing and feel it in the way he’s touching her. “Lydia, do you love _me_?” She doesn’t respond; doesn’t want to say anything to ruin the hope that she’s just heard in Stiles’ voice. “I’m so in love with you. I have been forever.”

The ache in his voice is almost tangible, and feeling it resound through her is what causes Lydia to finally break. She looks over at Stiles, their noses almost touching, and as soon as he sees her eyes, his breath hitches.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers. “Oh my god, I’m such an idiot. I’m so sorry.”

Lydia shakes her head against him, rocking their foreheads together. She’s unwilling to stop touching him.  

“You’re not an idiot,” she whispers to him. He breathes in the words.

“I was concentrating so hard on giving you space and trying not to be in love with you that I just… I completely screwed up.”

“I spent about eight years screwing up, Stiles.”

He reaches out and grabs her hand, pulling it into his clumsily. Lydia’s heart speeds up, thudding heavily in her ears. When his thumb brushes over her palm, all of her nerve endings seem to be in her fingers; she can feel her heartbeat in the tips of them, where they are touching Stiles.

In a few minutes, she’s going to kiss him. But right now, this is enough.

* * *

They intend to inch towards each other, but sometimes life aims arrows that knock your plans out of the sky.

It’s not even because Lydia needs sex badly; yeah, making out with Stiles can get frustrating when they force themselves to stop, but she could probably hold out with anyone else in the world. She doesn’t even remember whose idea it was to wait to have sex in the first place, but she’s pretty sure that Stiles thinks he’s taking care of her and Lydia is trying to care for herself. With every relationship she has had, she had jumped right into sex before she had established emotional intimacy. With Stiles, the intimacy has been prevalent for so long that it’s sometimes maddening, how well he knows her.

In the end, she’s pretty sure that this is their downfall-- not hormones or sexual frustration or biology. Their downfall is the fact that they know the ins and outs of each other, and sometimes this fact presses so powerfully against Lydia that it makes her waver. When she’s kissing him, she’s well aware that she’s kissing her best friend; the person that she has rebuilt a trust with.

Lydia thinks that it’s almost embarrassing that all it takes for them to give up is an empty house; it’s the equivalent of being knocked over by a light breeze. But they’re on her bed, bodies glued together, and the shallow breaths that occur even when they’re barely touching each other is enough to drive Lydia crazy. Stiles’ lips are roaming her skin, and before Lydia remembers that they’re not supposed to be rushing, he’s carefully lifted her shirt over her head and is pressing kisses against her collarbone; her stomach; the tops of her breasts.

She lets him, even as he gently pulls the cups of her bra down and kisses what has been covered. Lydia just arches closer, winding her hands into his hair and whimpering when she looks down and sees the dark brown strands knotted into her fingers.  

When she finally gathers the strength to stop Stiles, it’s only so that she can sit them both up and push his shirt off. He doesn’t say anything as she looks at the contours of his chest, simply choosing to watch her study him. Stiles only speaks when Lydia has moved her gaze up to his eyes.

“Your turn?” he asks, and she wants to smile as she reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra, but she can’t move her lips. She just looks at him, feeling more bare than she ever has before. Stiles surges forward to kiss her as soon as Lydia’s bra is off, his hands automatically going to the back zipper of her skirt. Even as he pulls it off, Lydia knows that the nerves she feels are not a product of anxiety. They are excitement, and hope, and something that feels like a future.

This is the first time she has sex with someone who she knows she will want to have sex with tomorrow, and next week, and next month. This feels permanent.

“Your turn,” she echoes, whispering the words, and Stiles laughs slightly.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, clumsily kissing her as his hands go to the button on his jeans. Lydia rests her hands on the tops of her knees and watches as Stiles kicks his jeans to the floor, grunting in an annoyed manner when his foot gets caught in a hole. It’s her turn to laugh this time, and she does quite loudly, mindlessly. She could be breaking the moment, but Stiles just makes a face at her and moves in to kiss her, mumbling something about how skirts are easier to take off than jeans. She cups his cheek with one hand and pulls him closer with the hand that lies on the back of his neck, tugging until she’s on his lap and their chests are flush against each other.

“ _God_ ,” Stiles moans, but the word just lingers in the air as he bends his head into the curve of her neck and presses kisses against the parts of her back and shoulders that he can reach. Lydia skims a hand up and down his back and rocks over him, unable to understand the words that he is murmuring against her skin but certainly able to understand the sentiment.

She can feel his love for her in his hands, and in the vibrations of his voice against her bones, and can even feel it in the way he slowly tastes her skin, not allowing a single moment to pass without appreciating it. This is probably the reason that she doesn’t stop him when he presses her against the pillows and makes his way down her body, pressing kisses against her skin as he goes.

For some reason, she doesn’t feel anxious even as she watches his head between her thighs. Just… curious. Safe, even. She leans up on her elbows and tilts her head to the side, observing. A few seconds later, her elbows give out and her head falls back against the pillow as she loudly moans.

“Lydia?” comes Stiles’ confused voice, but she just shakes her head and pushes him back down, slinging an arm over her eyes to block her sight.

When Lydia finally pulls her arm away, Stiles is resting on the pillow next to her, staring down at her. His eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes confused as he leans against his hand and traces a finger lightly down her cheek.

“Nobody’s ever done that to you before.”

It’s not a question. Lydia shakes her head anyways.

“I wouldn’t let anybody. I didn’t want anyone to.”

“But… you let me.”

She starts to smile.

“I know.”

He breathes out raggedly.

“Lyds--”

She doesn’t let him get any further before she kisses him.

“I _love_ you,” she says, pushing the words against his lips, and that’s all Stiles needs to hear.

Suddenly he’s on top of her and she’s staring up at him and her teeth are scraping her bottom lip and he’s brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from her face.

“Are you okay?” he says tenderly.

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut as a wave of emotion washes over her.

“More than okay,”

“Me too.”

His voice is so rough that she can hear how badly he wants her. The love that this realization brings her is overwhelming.

“Ready?” she whispers.

“Ready,” he promises.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay, a few housekeeping things. Don’t allow boys to pour your drinks at parties if you can’t see what they’re putting in the drinks. Just because Lydia did it, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Also, don’t ever, ever allow somebody to treat you like Jackson treats Lydia. That relationship was abusive, even though Lydia doesn’t recognize it. If you’re in a relationship like that, talk to someone. It’s not okay.
> 
> Thank you to Ashley (sass-is-the-new-class) for beta reading, Gia (stilesmcalll) for her opinions and prereading, and Rachel (madgrad2011) for her extremely constructive thoughts about Lydia’s relationship with sex. Reading them confirmed everything I had written in the fic and I appreciate it so much.
> 
> The title for this fic comes from “Skin” by Boy, which I encourage you to check out. It’s a perfect song for this fic.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the Stydia. If you want to come fangirl with me about it, I’m rongasm on tumblr. And trust me when I say that I always want to talk about Stydia. 100% of the time. Love, ~writergirl8


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